


How to Catch a Raven

by carelessplanets



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-DA4 News Hysteria, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Trespasser Trauma, Stream of Consciousness, War Table Operation: Protect Clan Lavellan (Dragon Age) - Failure, there is no plot this is just lavellan losing her mind ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carelessplanets/pseuds/carelessplanets
Summary: Did you know that wolves and ravens are friends? It's a tale as old as the skies.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	How to Catch a Raven

**Author's Note:**

> first time posting my writing and it's a vent fic. fantastic :^) comments highly appreciated.

When the trees whisper, listen. They are old and wise and generous in sharing their knowledge, unlike the sky or the ocean. Renevis prefers to think that trees hold up the Fade. They are everywhere she wanders, dark crooked oaks creaking in the winds or the quiet birch trees watching her every step with hundreds of black eyes.

The oak groans behind her back, and Renevis opens her eyes. 

‘You have not visited for quite a while,’ the halla says, meeting her tired look. 

Renevis nods. ‘First time since their deaths.’ 

‘Ah.’ The halla turns its head a little as if it hadn’t noticed dead bodies lying in the grass, staining the cold soil with blood. ‘I see.’ 

The camp is void of movement. Completely still. It is not a silence of a looming danger, of a predator in hiding. It is the silence at the end of the world. 

Renevis draws in a deep breath, and the blood trickles up the leaves of grass, gathering in little drops. The drops rise in the air and wait, suspended in time. 

Renevis lets magic rush through her veins, willing the illusion to shift and make way for older memories. She holds her breath. The oak is a grounding, anchoring presence at her back. She summons images to her mind – or ideas of images, if you will. A tap of a halla’s hoof. A crackling of fire. Slender fingers on the lyre’s strings. The sweet trickle of birch-tree juice down her chin. The rustling of leaves beneath her feet. 

She exhales, and the trees breathe out with her. The breath sends a tender breeze moving through the wood. Twilight spills over the Fade. The world slows, shapeless movement shifting into familiar faces and voices. 

Renevis watches in silence as her brothers and sisters dance around the campfire, sparks and singing and laughter coursing through the night. The music is distant, muffled, as if reaching for Renevis from underwater. The Keeper stands to the side, leaning on her staff, smiling, soaking in hahren’s stories with her childlike wonder. Renevis herself sits on a large boulder away from the fire. There is an open book on her knees, illuminated by an orb of magical light. 

‘Ever the ambitious scholar,’ the halla says, now standing by Renevis’s side. ‘Some things truly never change.’ 

Renevis suppresses a grin as Arras braces himself to jump over the campfire. His young face is bare, free from the _vallaslin_. 

She shakes her head, chasing the unwelcome memory away, but the distant sound of drums and war horns shakes the ground beneath her, sends a shiver through the dome of leaves guarding her from the raw Fade. 

The Fade dissipates and shifts again. Renevis stands up and strides towards the campfire. The world crumbles around her, returning to the illusion Renevis found herself in earlier. She finds Arras’ body, his arms twisted at unnatural angles, his grey tunic dark with blood. The elf’s empty eyes stare upward, at the gnarled crown of oak branches shielding the campsite from sunlight. 

Renevis remembers how she found his body laying broken on the blood-stained grass of Wycome forest. A year had passed since she’d last seen him. She’d secretly hoped she would find his face bare and free. She’d hoped she never learnt the truth. 

Her eyes glaze over the pale ornament lining Arras’ brown face. The mark of Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, the protector of peace and home and children. Arras found his calling in musical arts and healing, singing to appease the gods and to save lives. 

Renevis runs an absent hand over her own face before she can stop herself. The halla taps its hoof beside her three times. 

‘The First goes away to save the world,’ it says. ‘And now the First becomes the last.’ 

Renevis looks at the spirit, pensive. 

‘I never asked,’ she says, ‘what drew you to this place? To us?’ 

‘Your mind welcomes knowledge with open arms,’ the spirit replies, its voice soft like the rustling of parchment. ‘Your life is a search for a multitude of questions. The answer is not the end, but a beginning.’ 

Renevis bites on her lower lip as she is reminded of similar words, words uttered long ago through the dark swirls of raw Fade. _Truth is not the end, but a beginning_. 

‘You were drawn to _me_?’ she asks the halla. 

Before the spirit can reply, the wind rises and a faint breeze passes through the forest, playing with Renevis’s hair. The spirit stretches its neck, staring at something behind Renevis. Without a word or a glance, the halla darts off and disappears into the dark of the wood, quick as a flash. 

Renevis turns around. 

Did you know that wolves and ravens are friends? It’s a tale as old as the skies. Wherever the lone wolf goes, the raven follows. 

Renevis meets the wolf’s sad red eyes. It does not approach her, just stands there at the edge of the clearing, watching her in silence. 

The Fade recoils in alarm, focus shifting, and Renevis blinks and sharpens the blurring edges with a flick of her fingers. A bolt of pain rips through her arm, reaching her shoulder and crawling up her throat. Suppressing a groan, Renevis glances down. The pain fades as soon as Renevis remembers the Anchor is gone, and so is her arm. 

She looks back at the wolf. She looks back at the wolf, and his eyes glint with guilt. 

Some time ago you must have had a dragon carved into your face. Burn the dragon off, and what remains? A lone wolf. 

The Keeper’s fingers are a warm, tingling presence at her temples. ‘You have shown an unparalleled determination to pursue knowledge for knowledge’s sake. For this, you have chosen to honour Dirthamen, the Keeper of Secrets. Let him guide you in your scholarly endeavour and guard you on _dirth’an shiral_. ‘Dread neither Fear nor Deceit,’ the Keeper continues. ‘Watch yourself, _da’len_ , and let not your hunger blind you.’ 

Dirthamen’s raven does not burn into her skin. It stings at first, and then becomes a dull, gnawing pain behind her eyes. The ache of an untold secret, of bitter truth waiting to be uncovered. 

Will you face the raven on the raven’s face? Except the raven is gone, drawn away by cold trembling hands. 

Pluck the feathers from the raven’s wings and weave them into your crown. But you do not want a crown, do you? 

The wolf is gone. The raven is gone. The raven is gone, so who remains beneath? 

What is left when the secret is no more? 

Something to understand. Something to see. Something to love. 

Something to fear. 

‘When you looked at my face,’ Renevis says, ‘did your own secret look back?’ 

The wolf, of course, does not reply. It holds her gaze for a moment longer and turns away, darkness swirling at its paws. Its black fur merges with the shadow of the forest’s deep, moving away from scattered honey-drops of sunlight reaching through the oaks’ crowns. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and something cold taps Renevis’ nose. A hush moves through the branches above her, trees whispering among each other. 

She opens her eyes. 

The rain pours stronger, louder, its cold drops lashing on the leaves in a growing rush of water. The storm is now above her, and thunder rolls over the forest with a menacing growl. 

The former Lavellan campsite is deserted save for Renevis, Varric, Guard Captain Aveline and the Seneschal. There are no bodies; the only memento of her people is a burned-out circle at the centre of the clearing. 

Varric shifts uncomfortably. He squints up at the sky. ‘That storm’s not you, Books, is it?’ 

Renevis’s gaze drifts towards the place where the wolf stood in the Fade. There is no trace of it in the waking world, as one would expect. 

‘We should go,’ she says. ‘Trees and lightning do not mix well together.’ 

Before they jump into their carriage that would take them to Kirkwall, Renevis pauses to face the forest. 

‘Listen to the skies, _vhenan_ ,’ she tells the trees. ‘You will hear my approach.’ 

When the trees whisper, listen. They are old and wise and generous in sharing their knowledge, and they remember. Listen carefully, and you might catch a faint usher of a secret slipping between trembling fingers. 

And then, hold a mirror against a mirror, and find the raven in between. 

**Author's Note:**

> To whomever read these mad ravings: thank you. I am always anxious about sharing my writing but knowing that someone might have read it helps me breathe nonetheless.  
> As an aside, English is not my first language and I am still learning, so please feel free to point out any mistakes or awkward phrasing. Thank you!


End file.
